The cups come
And the cups are going.
Down where the waters
Are neither Silver nor gold
Your son; old
The cuffs are young on my wrist
The ups are stronger in the mist
But I keep trying to see
If I can be
More than you and less of you
Lest your blue, finds me a glue


Mother, I have been running
Other nights I am climbing
Yet fruited upon your path.
Err a foot and stump a start
Grey patch haired boy with a jungle
On his head, in his heart
Adorable like a Swan yet an angry sea
Who's love knows rivers and oceans

So Much Thirst Yet So Much Rain
To become like mum again

cochtrane
Always is this you